But when he finally stood in the hall outside his apartment, when he stood at the top of the stairs, looking down, the fear almost paralyzed him. It made him feel frantic and sluggish at the same time. He wanted to run. And he wanted to sink down on the top step and burst into tears. Okay, Jesus. Please, he thought. He was so sorry he had taken the drug last night.
He took a breath and started walking slowly down the stairs.
He had a bandanna on now. Tiffany’s cotton scarf with the elk pattern on it. It covered his head, dipping down over his brow, hiding his nearly crew-cut hair. He was carrying the red canvas overnight bag, his long raincoat draped over it. Trying to think how a woman would carry it, how she would hold her arms. He worked it out as he went down. Bending his arms at the elbow. Placing his feet carefully so that his skirt would sway. Please Jesus please.
By the time he got to the ground floor, he was a walking prayer. Please sorry please sorry sorry please please please. He thought he might give himself up out of pure terror. And now too, there was a windy, diarrhetic feeling in his belly. His bowels were starting to move. He knew if he turned back now, if he went back upstairs to the bathroom, he would never get away. That was another aftereffect of the drug: It turned your shit to mud. Even if Mulligan’s men didn’t come back for an hour, they’d still find him in there clutching the crapper rim, straining for dear life. He just had to hold his gut together until he got to Ollie’s.
He pushed open the door. Stepped out onto the stoop. The pasty-faced detective was right there, leaning against the car at the curb. He was in the act of dropping yet another cigarette into the gutter. He looked up. A mean square face. Acne-pocked skin. Beady, marbly eyes. He looked right up at Zach. And Zach, frozen in terror, just stood there like an idiot. Returned the stare.
Slowly, the detective smiled.
He’s got me! Zach thought. Oh Jesus, I’m so sorry, help me please!
And then, with a jaunty little gesture, the detective raised one finger to his brow and saluted him. And Zach understood. The cop was flirting with him! Thinking fast, he dropped his eyes shyly, shyly smiled. The detective’s grin widened. He straightened against the car, shifting his shoulders manfully in his tartan coat.
Zach held his breath. He knew he was going to make it. His fear was turning to excitement. His groin was hot with it.
Holy shit! he thought. If he had an erection, he was dead.
His heart hammered at his chest as he came tripping sweetly down the stairs. The detective’s eyes were glued to him, following every step.
Zach tossed him one last saucy look. Then, the red bag swinging with casual feminine grace, off he went, his skirt switching behind him.
Nancy opened her eyes. She took a long, slow look around her. Then she began to cry.
She couldn’t hold it in anymore. She let loose; she cried as if she were alone. Her mouth was wide open. Her eyes were shut tight. Her head was thrown back against the thin pad. Her body shook as the tears poured out of her.
Oh Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, is this me? Is this who I am?
She gulped the air, sobbing.
She was strapped to a gurney in the middle of a narrow room. A coarse gray blanket lay on top of her legs. Her coat had been taken away and the sleeve of her cream blouse had been rolled up to bare her arm. An IV bag hung on a hook above her head with a clear tube running from it to the crook of her elbow. The needle had been pushed into the vein there. It was taped down to hold it in place.
Nancy moaned. She opened her eyes. She stared through her tears at the white tiles of the ceiling, the hazy fluorescent light. She sobbed and her chest heaved against the strap that held her. She could not stop crying.
The room she was in was long, more of a corridor than a room. Along the walls were molded plastic seats. Hospital issue, blue, all linked together. Most of the men and women in the seats were black. They sat heavily, chins on their chests, mouths hanging open. Collapsed into themselves as if they’d been plopped down there, pats of dough off some big spoon. One old man with a grizzled beard was drooling. One fat woman was talking to herself. She wore a T-shirt that said: “Life-styles of the Poor and Unknown.” Her huge breasts lay on the rolls of her belly flesh. “I understand,” she kept saying. “You don’t understand, I understand perfectly.”
These patients sat on either side of Nancy. She was strapped to the gurney right in the middle of the room, right in front of everyone. The nurses had to turn their bodies when they wanted to get past her. One nurse smiled down at her as she squeezed by. Poor crazy thing. Nancy couldn’t stand it. She turned her face to the side. Her tears spilled across the bridge of her nose.
Is this really me? Is this really who I am?
The nurses slipped past her and past her again, carrying their folders. One was supporting a scrawny black woman by the elbow. The patient was staring at the floor, shuffling slowly along. Nancy tracked them as they went past the entranceway. She saw a policeman sitting there, a little cluster of blue chairs all to himself. His veiled eyes studied a tall wooden frame: a metal detector. Gotta watch those crazies, Nancy thought. Gotta watch those nut cases every second.
That made her remember: how she had screamed. How she had braced her heels against the floor, throwing her body back, shrieking up at the ceiling. Had that been her? The image of it seemed to swim sluggishly through the murk in her head. Was that me? The thought flashed neon out of the murk and vanished. It was all very tiring. That IV—it must have been pumping drugs into her. She was sooo sleepy. Thinking uphill. They must’ve been dripping some kind of secret drugs into her arm as she lay there strapped down, helpless. Made her want to scream some more. Scream plenty. That they could just do that to her. That they could just do anything to her they wanted. Because she was so goony. So goony as to be moony. So loony she was a loony tuney …
She laughed wearily through her tears. Christ, Christ, Christ-ti-Christ, she thought. What if this was what she was like? What if she just forgot sometimes, escaped, wandered out into the world …?
Yes, she likes to go into offices and pretend she works there. She can keep the game up for a while, but she’s completely insane. Hears voices, sees things. Thank you for bringing her back here, officer …
What if what she thought was her life was only a dream of her life, a wish for what her life would be if she weren’t …
The gaga girl from Booga-booga U.
She smiled, dimly now, her eyes half closed. All that weeping—it sure tired a person out. Made you muddy headed. And that sneaky IV—something was in there for certain. She could hardly keep her eyes from fluttering closed …
Then they shot open. Her heart was beating fast. Had she been asleep? She didn’t know. She didn’t know how much time had gone by. Someone’s hand was on her arm. She turned her head. Looked up.
A face hung over her. Round and black. Like a chocolate moon in the white sky above her. A lowering brow of dark, shiny granite. Huge, stern brown eyes.
“Who …?”
“Take it easy,” the black woman said. She patted Nancy’s arm. Nancy felt the calluses of her palm. She glanced down. All right; a nurse. She could understand that. The black woman was a nurse. Dressed in starched white with maroon piping. Squat and bosomy. With thick meaty arms, bare from the elbow.
“Let’s get you out of this,” she said.
“Opie’s,” Nancy said. She was trying to say, “Oh, please.”
There was a ripping noise. The nurse had pulled the tape up. Nancy sucked in a breath as the long IV needle was drawn out of her vein.
“How you feelin’ now?” the nurse said. “You got your mind in gear? I don’t want you biting my head off or anything, I got enough troubles of my own, you understand?”
Nancy tried to nod. Her eyes felt funny—untethered from her head. Her tongue tasted like a can of chili left open overnight.
“I’m Mrs. Anderson,” said the nurse. “I’m gonna take you to see the doctor.” With a few expert movements, she undid
the strap around Nancy’s chest. Pulled the blanket off her legs. Undid another strap down there. And more stuff: There were a lot of rattling sounds, gears croaking, metal clanking. God knew what the woman was doing. Nancy didn’t care. Her whole body had sagged into the gurney with relief. She was free!
“Come on,” said Mrs. Anderson.
Nancy felt the callused black hand take hold of her arm. With an effort, she sat up on the gurney. It was like a storm at sea. The narrow white room tilted up until she thought the dreary patients would be tossed from their blue chairs. Nancy swayed.
“I gotcha,” said Mrs. Anderson. One heavy arm went around Nancy’s thin shoulders. Nancy leaned against the papery material of the uniform. Felt the soft, solid body underneath. She loved this woman. She was ready to follow Mrs. Anderson into the sulfury pit.
They went down the hall instead. Just another nurse with another shuffling patient. Nancy’s neck was bent as they went, her head down, just like the scrawny black woman she had seen before. Her feet—still in her flats—did not come off the floor as she scraped along. They crossed the narrow room into an even narrower hallway: a cinderblock corridor with doors on the left-hand wall.
“Right in here,” said Mrs. Anderson. “You sit, and the doctor be right with you.”
They had come into a tiny room. A cramped cubicle packed with furniture. A file cabinet in the corner. A desk topped with imitation wood. A table of the same material. Shelves in the wall stacked high with papers, papers overflowing. Two chairs: a cheap black-and-metal swivel for the desk, blue plastic for guests. Hardly a bare strip of scarred linoleum floor visible under it all.
“You sit,” said Mrs. Anderson again.
Nancy carefully lowered herself into the plastic chair opposite the desk. Her head felt enormous, but she managed to raise it. She nodded at Mrs. Anderson, smiled her nice-girl smile. I’m fine now, see? I’m a very nice girl. You’ll have no more problems with me, no sir, you betcha. If they strapped her to that gurney again, she really would go out of her mind.
Mrs. Anderson nodded her big head gravely. Then she was gone from the open door.
Alone, Nancy sat in her plastic chair and tried to look docile. Shoulders hunched, hands clasped on her lap. Ready for the doctor. She studied the shiny metal leg of die desk in front of her. Excuse me, Doctor, she thought, would it be possible for me to make a phone call? She shook her head, tried again. Excuse me, sir. I don’t want to make any trouble or anything, but later, if there’s time and I can find a phone free … She took a trembling breath. Maybe she wouldn’t even have to ask, she thought. Wouldn’t they just let her call her mother at some point? Sure they would. Maybe they’d already called her. It would probably be best to just wait; don’t start any trouble.
The phone on the desk gave a soft breep. She dared to raise her eyes a little until she saw the phone’s light blinking. Papers stacked on the desktop. A manila folder open, forms fanning out of it. Pencils here and there.
“Ah! The new victim.”
She turned to the door quickly. A man stood there. An older man in a worn black suit, a loosened red tie. Bent-backed, hands in his jacket pockets. He had straight silver hair pouring down one side of his face. A mottled face with white lips that smiled kindly, small eyes that glistened merrily as they took her in.
Nancy composed her expression: friendly, respectful. The way she’d greeted Dr. Bloom since she was thirteen years old. “Hello, Doctor,” she said.
He unpocketed one hand, held it up at her. “No, no. Not a doctor, just a … well, a counselor, I think, is the politest word for me. Why not just call me Billy Joe? Billy Joe Campbell. And you are …”
She managed a party-manners nod. “Nancy Kincaid.”
“Ah,” said the old man again. Briskly, he stepped forward. Sat in the desk chair and swiveled around to face her. The phone was still ringing but he paid it no mind. He rolled his chair forward a little, until his knees were nearly touching hers. He leaned toward her, his merry eyes bright. “You,” he said slowly, “are afraid.”
Nancy pressed her lips together. What was the right answer? “A little, yeah.” She had to speak carefully to make the words clear. “A lot actually.”
He smiled. He reached out and took her hands off her lap, held them in his. “I don’t blame you.” His hands were cool and dry and somehow reassuring. “What’s happening to you is very frightening,” he said. “And the task before you is more frightening still.”
He held her gaze with his, no matter how much the phone breeped. Nancy saw its light blinking from the corner of her eyes. “The task?” she said thickly.
“Oh yes!” He leaned back, still holding her hands. To Nancy’s relief, the phone stopped finally. “It’s a sort of journey really. A journey down into the dark. An adventure—different for every person and yet, for each person, almost exactly the same.”
She licked her lips, shook her head a little. She was held by the jolly light dancing in those eyes. She couldn’t think of what to say.
“For each person,” he went on, “there are … talismans that must be found. Trials to overcome. Riddles to answer. And, at the end, in die darkest place of all: a fearsome creature: the Other; the self whom, above everything, you wish not to be. Only if you have the courage to embrace that self can you learn the magic word.”
Nancy could still only shake her head. “The magic word?”
And he, with a nod, would only answer her, “The magic word, yes.” And then he lowered his chin to his chest. Peered up at her from under bushy brows.
“Well … what do I have to do?” Nancy said after a moment. She felt she had to say something. “I mean, what do we do now? Where do we begin?”
“Ah!” He chuckled amiably. “First of all, we have to kill the Jews.”
“What?”
“And I mean all the Jews. We have to kill them and send their bodies to the moon.”
Nancy was still gazing into those merry eyes as, very slowly, her mouth began to fall open.
“That will be fun, won’t it?” said the man.
Nancy yanked her hands from him. “Why, you’re … you’re crazy.”
“OH, LIKE YOUR SHIT DON’T STINK!” he screamed. He jumped to his feet, his arms flying. “What do you think you’re here for, sister? Shingles?”
“Billy Joe!”
It was Mrs. Anderson. She came steaming back into the little room, her great chest a prow.
“What’re you doin’ in here? You quit screaming at that girl! Right now! You hear?”
The man in the worn black suit hunched his shoulders. He pulled his head in like a turtle. “Yes, Mrs. Anderson,” he said.
“You go on, get back out there where you belong ’fore I lose my temper. Go on. Right now.”
Billy Joe had to make himself the width of a piece of paper to squeeze past the mighty nurse. But he managed it—fast—and slipped out of the room.
“I’m surrounded by goddamned crazy people,” Mrs. Anderson said. She shook her head. Turned her big, stern eyes on Nancy—who was pinned to her chair, welded to it, back straight, features frozen in a silent scream, as if an electric shock had gone through her. “Oh, don’t you let that one bother you,” Mrs. Anderson told her. “He don’t do nothin’. Here come the doctor now.”
Nancy swiveled as stiffly as a mannequin. Turned her electric eyes on the door, thinking: Magic Word? Magic Word? Jesus Christ! Get me out of here!
And then the doctor strolled in, whistling.
“The Animal Hour.”
Perkins looked up, surprised.
“The Animal Hour and Other Poems.”
“Yeah,” Perkins said. “How do you know that?”
“It’s a book.”
“That’s right.”
“You wrote it.”
“How do you know that, man? Come on.”
The other blinked, his face impassive. A queer, dangerous little guy, Perkins thought. Short to the point of insignificance. With that mild round face. The
pug nose. The curly hair high on his forehead. He kept blinking behind his wire rims but his expression never changed. His high-pitched, airy voice never changed its tone. He never even took off his trench coat.
Nathaniel Mulligan, his name was; detective, NYPD. The two of them were alone together in a room in the Sixth Precinct. It was one of those soulless rooms only governments build. Green cinderblock walls. White linoleum floor. Louvered windows with no view. Papers posted on corkboards everywhere. There were four big desks, all shiny metal with wood finish on top, all unoccupied. Four black swivel chairs and four chairs of black plastic. Perkins was in one of the plastic chairs. Mulligan was standing, his hands in his trench coat pockets. Gazing down at him. Blinking down.
The detective let the silence lengthen. That was a little trick of his apparently. Build up the suspense. And it worked; Perkins hated it. Every time the talking stopped, the girl’s face came back to him; her head staring up from the toilet. She had been alive, he kept thinking. She had had a woman’s voice. He remembered the TV cameras at the alley gates. The way they had crowded around the patrolman who brought out the white plastic bucket with her head in it. Man, when Nana saw that on the evening news … It would kill her. And that brought him back to Zach too. What about Zach? Where the hell was …?
Mulligan drew one hand out of his pocket. He held up the book. It was in a plastic bag, but Perkins recognized it all right. The white cover, the small black letters. Mulligan put it down on the desk next to Perkins. Perkins glanced at it.
The Animal Hour
and Other Poems
by Oliver Perkins
There was a streak of rust brown in the white space under his name. Another across the r in Hour. Blood. Christ. More blood everywhere. Perkins’s tongue felt thick in his mouth.
“Where’d you find that?”
“On the floor next to the bed,” said Mulligan. “Next to the body. You don’t know how it got there.” This was another trick of his. He didn’t ask questions. He supplied your answers. It gave the answers sort of a sardonic tone even though his high voice never changed. It made the answers sound like lies.
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